Sarafina opened sleep-heavy eyes with colossal effort and watched two men make their way around the small room where they’d locked her up. She must still be alive since not even the drugs they’d given her could dull the sharp panic cutting up her throat or the slam of her beating heart. This was her worst nightmare. She was a ball of terror imprisoned in a body too heavy to move.
Alive in a dead body.
She’d been drifting in and out of consciousness for over twenty-four hours . . . she guessed. Just when the drugged lethargy began to ease from her muscles, someone came in and shot her back up again. The time had passed as if she lived in a lucid dream, her consciousness scrabbling against the padded container it was locked within.
As the men left the room and shut the door behind them, her eyelids grew heavy again. Sarafina struggled to keep them open, fought to stay conscious, but she was no match for the drugs wending their way through her veins.
When Sarafina woke next, the first thing she noticed was the absence of the heaviness in her limbs. She could move! Her fear was also gone, replaced by an all-consuming rage.
The second thing she noticed was a man sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, his face hidden by shadow. Creepy.
She bolted upright and addressed the most pressing matter at hand. “Where’s my dog? I swear to God if you did anything to Grosset, I will—”
“Please, your dog is fine,” came the dulcet voice of Stefan Faucheux, his French accent still audible even though he’d spent most of his life in the United States. He stood and smiled, spreading his manicured hands. “What do you take me for, a monster?” His full lips twisted and he gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Okay, so I’m a monster, but not one that hurts children or animals.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s safe, I assure you, sleeping on a doggie bed in my room. I will bring him to you after we’ve talked.”
Sarafina pushed off the bed and went for the door. “Talk? No way. I’m getting my dog and leaving this place right now.”
The door was locked, of course. She used both hands to twist the unyielding knob and when that didn’t work, she hit and kicked the solid oak, yelling at it until she was hoarse.
Stefan stood in the center of the room, watching her with a patient expression on his face. Like she was a two-year-old throwing a tantrum and he was waiting for her to realize the futility of her temper.
Stymied by the door, she whirled and spotted a window. Ignoring Stefan, she stalked to it, pushing aside the heavy burgundy drapes. They appeared to be in a farmhouse in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Cornfields spread out in every direction she could see. The room they’d put her in was on the second floor and there was no convenient tree or trestle beyond the pane of glass. Not that Stefan would have let her get that far, anyway. Not that she would’ve tried it without Grosset.
She picked up a tacky porcelain figurine of a milkmaid from the table near the window, turned, and threw it at Stefan. He raised his hand and it burst into a ball of white-hot fire before it reached him, falling to the carpet and smoldering there.
She stared. “What the—”
“You have questions.”
She jerked her gaze up from the melting piece of kitsch. “Questions? Yes, I have questions. What the . . .” She knew her eyes were just about saucer-sized.
“I can call fire, Sarafina.” He smiled. “I play devil to your angel, yes? Although, as you will soon see, we’re not that unalike.”
Her stomach clenched. Calling fire. Fire? It had to be some kind of a trick. God! She had a headache. “You’re playing some kind of sick and twisted game with me because you know about my mother. You saw the news articles or the TV show, and now you’re doing this for kicks.”
Stefan shook his head. “This has nothing to do with your mother, Sarafina. Not directly, anyway. It’s not a game we’re playing here.”
She swallowed hard against her dry throat and mouth, a result of the drugs, she was sure. “What’s going on? What do you want from me? What was that crap you pumped through my body?”
“We want to help you realize your potential, Sarafina. Nothing dark or sinister. We simply want to